Dead in the Water

Alice frowned. For the first time, she seemed uncertain. “He was rather evasive about the details.”

“Or when and why he came to Oxford?”

“He said he came here because he thought Oxford in the summer would be a rather fine place to be.” Alice smiled, remembering. “Those were his exact words. Then he winked.”

“Winked? At you?”

“At our youth worker, Rose!” She rolled her eyes. “I think he fancied Rose. And she liked him.”

“Lots of people seem to have liked him.” Mullen left the statement hanging in the air, hoping Alice might say something else, preferably something indiscreet which would clarify the confusion he felt when he tried to imagine Chris as a person. Chris the elusive, as hard to pin down as a dragonfly.

Alice shrugged. “Thanks for the sponsorship!” And she turned away.

The church was emptying. Mullen watched Alice approach an old lady dressed in purple, but his brain barely registered this because it was too busy sifting the details of their conversation. Chris was rather evasive about detail. That was what the girl had said. If that was the case — and everything he had learnt so far pointed to that being so — the question was: why? What had Chris got to hide?

Mullen downed the last of his coffee and returned the cup to the hatch. He moved towards the exit. The Reverend Downey was talking to yet another member of her congregation. Mullen was relieved. He had had enough. He just wanted to slip unobtrusively out of church and escape back home.

“Doug!” It seemed that the Reverend didn’t let members of her congregation sidle past her without a firm handshake and exchange of greetings. “How nice to see you here again! We must be doing something right!” She laughed and took his hand, leaning closer as she did so. “I gather you’ve been talking to Kevin,” she said in a low whisper. “I trust you haven’t been jumping to any wild conclusions?” Her fingers tightened their grip. “You should read the epistle of James. It cautions us all about the dangers of idle gossip.” Her fingernails dug into the back of his hand. Then she released her hold and smiled. “See you next Sunday, I hope.”

* * *

Mullen exited the church with a sigh, but there was little relief outside. The relative cool of the church was exchanged for the heat of another scorching day. There was no protection from the blazing light of the sun either and as he lifted his right hand against it he glimpsed two figures standing dark and still a couple of metres in front of him.

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t Mr Mullen.”

He recognised the sarcastic voice of Dorkin immediately, just as he recognised the bulky outline of DS Fargo. He felt a jolt of anxiety. He didn’t need Sherlock Holmesian powers to deduce that something was very wrong.

“A little bird told us you’d be at church,” Dorkin continued. “Didn’t really believe it, but what do you know?” Dorkin was enjoying the moment.

A thought flashed across Mullen’s brain: who was the little bird? But then it was gone and Dorkin was saying something else. “I’d like a little chat with you, Mullen, if you don’t mind.”

“It’s Sunday,” Mullen said, stating the obvious.

“Normally it’s my day off too,” came the reply. Dorkin had dropped the sarcasm. “But I have here a search warrant,” he said. “For The Cedars, Foxcombe Road, Boars Hill.” He thrust a piece of paper at Mullen. “Would you like to read it?”

Mullen was suddenly conscious that there were several members of the St Mark’s congregation standing around, watching with fascination. Rose Wilby and Derek Stanley were both standing on the far side of the road. They must have left shortly before he had and had turned to watch the drama unfold. Mullen tried to ignore them. He glanced at the search warrant in his hand. He made no attempt to read it in detail. He hadn’t ever seen one before, but it could hardly be a fake. Dorkin wouldn’t be stupid enough to do that, especially with so many curious bystanders as witnesses. He handed it back to him. “So what now?”

‘What now?’ involved Mullen handing over his house keys to Dorkin, who passed them over to a pair of uniformed officers standing in the shade of one of the poplar trees which stood in ranks along the front of the church.

‘What now?’ involved Mullen himself being driven to the police station and then having to wait for nearly two hours before a solicitor could be found.

‘What now?’ involved Mullen in doing a lot of thinking.

* * *

Mullen’s solicitor introduced herself as Althea Potter. She was brisk and a little off-hand. She was dressed in white slacks and pale pink blouse. Her blonde bob of hair was still wet and she smelt of chlorine. She looked like a woman who had just had her weekend rudely interrupted.

She asked Mullen a series of questions, made a note of his answers on her notepad and then went to the door. There was a uniformed constable outside. “Tell Inspector Dorkin we are ready,” she said. “And would you mind getting us both a cup of tea. I would also point out that my client hasn’t had lunch either.”

Twenty minutes passed before Dorkin appeared with Fargo. Mullen tried not to give way to his feelings of irritation. No doubt this delaying was a deliberate tactic by Dorkin, but if so the constable who brought in not just cups of tea but also sandwiches was not party to it. Mullen was starting to feel human again.

Fargo did the preliminaries. Then he fell silent and waited for Dorkin who again embarked on a game of silence as he leafed through the folder of papers lying on the table in front of him.

“What the heck is this all about?” Mullen said. Althea Potter touched his arm with her hand, but he had no intention of lying there and being trampled.

Dorkin looked across at him, a jackal-smile on his face. “I’ve got something to show you,” he said.

Fargo conjured up with a flourish a thin large-format book out of the pile of paperwork in front of him and placed it in front of Mullen. Mullen didn’t have to fake surprise. He had never seen the book in his life, as far as he was aware.